27. Maisie
MAISIE
T he rink feels different in the afternoons.
There’s no shouting, no hockey blades tearing up the ice. Just the soft hum of music from someone’s phone, the occasional burst of laughter from the locker room.
Most of the girls barely look up when I step inside the locker room. A few glance my way, then drop their eyes just as fast. No one says anything. No one really ever does.
I’m used to being invisible.
But today, I don’t even mind.
I’m still thinking about the other day. About Austin. About the way his hands settled on my hips, his voice low in my ear, and his lips pressed against mine.
The memory has been looping in my head for days now, slipping in at the most inconvenient times and leaving me flustered.
Since then, he’s been practically begging me to come over every single night.
I tried to resist—honestly, I did—but last night I gave in.
Which is why I’m a little later than usual for practice…
because staying in Austin Rhodes’ bed, warm and tangled up in his sheets, sounded a whole lot better than coming to the freezing cold rink.
I sit down on the bench in the far corner, but my attention is snagged when my phone buzzes.
Once. Then again. And again.
I glance down, expecting maybe a message from Bailey, but when I see Austin’s name lighting up the screen, a slow smile spreads across my face.
Austin:
you left 10 minutes ago and I want you back already.
come back.
right now.
I’ll give you my hoodie. my wallet.
there’s like 10 bucks in there but they’re yours.
we can watch whatever movie you want.
we can eat cookies.
we can bake cookies.
you looked so fucking beautiful today.
you always do.
come back.
please.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. I press a hand over my face and shake my head, grinning like crazy. He’s ridiculous. And sweet. And… god , I don’t even know how to deal with this version of him.
A couple girls glance my way, mildly curious, but I duck my head and focus on my phone.
Me:
Do you even have the ingredients to bake cookies?
Austin:
omw to buy them right now.
My bottom lip catches between my teeth, and I don’t even try to stop the smile this time. It stretches wide and helpless across my face.
Me:
Fine. After practice I’ll be right over.
I send it before I can talk myself out of it. Before the doubts can creep in.
But my finger hovers over the screen for a second longer than it should. Because right as I go to lock my phone, my eyes flick down to the thread below Austin’s name.
Six.
I tap his name and the messages open like muscle memory. Even though I’ve read them all a hundred times, I scroll anyway. My eyes trace every word, every reply. And then, I start typing.
Me:
I don’t know how to say this, but I think I need to stop texting you.
You’ve meant more to me than you’ll probably ever know.
You made me feel seen when I didn’t think anyone could.
But I’ve fallen for someone. And it doesn’t feel fair to keep holding on to this.
Thank you for everything. Truly. You helped me more than you know. But this has to be goodbye.
I don’t let myself reread it. I just hit send, and then turn off my phone and stare straight ahead, letting out a deep breath.
I tug my hoodie off and fold it beside me on the bench, then start my usual off-ice warm-up before lacing my skates. Normally, I’d do this back at my dorm or the gym before coming to the rink, but coming straight from Austin’s place this morning, I didn’t have much time.
I warm up for a while, jogging down the hallway, high knees, butt kicks—which feel ridiculous but are very effective. I grab the wall and swing my legs, trying to loosen my hips without looking too awkward. Arm circles, hip rolls, and a few rotations.
I move onto a couple of off-ice jumps, double loop and axel, careful not to twist anything the wrong way. Then heel raises, toe walks, ankle circles, and rolling my foot over a golf ball to ease the tight spots I always seem to get.
By the time I finish stretching, my muscles are humming, ready to get on the ice.
I tug my hoodie over my head, fold it beside me on the bench, and finish lacing my skates. I roll my ankles a few times, stretch out my legs, then push to my feet and make my way toward the rink.
A few of the girls are already scattered across the rink—two running programs at the far end, one looping through footwork drills near the center.
I step onto the ice and skate toward my usual spot in the corner. I start easy with some edges and figure eights, giving my body a chance to settle into the movement. My legs ache and stretch, slowly loosening, settling into the rhythm.
I move onto crossovers next. Forward, then backward, leaning hard into each turn, letting my weight shift, my muscles waking up and humming with heat.
Coach watches from the boards, clipboard in hand. “Keep your hips over your foot on those crossovers. Don’t let yourself fall forward.”
I nod and bite back a sigh because, honestly, that’s easier said than done when my legs are already starting to scream.
“Spin sequence,” she calls out next. “Camel, sit, then combination.”
Spins are always a little tricky for me. I kick up into the camel spin, feeling my free leg extend behind me, making sure my free leg extends straight behind me, toe pointed out—not down—and I dip my left arm before sweeping it back up, slicing through the air.
But I end up too far forward on my toe pick, and lose balance, wobbling just enough to fall out.
“Reset and try again,” Coach says. “Your chest rises a lot when you come up. Keep your right hip back and when you stand on your spinning leg, make sure it’s open.”
I nod, taking a deep breath, and try again, focusing on keeping my chest low and hips back. The entry feels smoother this time. I spin, round and round, counting each rotation in my head. Ten clean, solid turns before I finally wobble.
“Better,” Coach nods, a rare smile breaking through. “You’re finding your edge again. Sit spin next. Focus on getting low, keep that free leg parallel to the ice. Don’t let your hips dip.”
I bend into it, trying to sink low enough without shaking. My muscles burn, but I keep my gaze fixed on a spot in the rink, anchoring myself. The spin builds, solid enough to keep going for fifteen rotations before I slow down.
Coach nods. “Good. You’re getting stronger.”
I kick up into the camel, smooth the transition into the sit, and then pull my free leg in for the final upright spin. It’s tricky, switching positions without losing momentum, but I push through, and nail a solid twenty rotations before stopping.
My chest heaves and a grin spreads across my face. “That felt… pretty good.”
She arches a brow, nodding. “That’s what I want to hear. Keep it up.”
She moves farther down the rink, eyes locked on Brianna as she runs through her drills, and I shift my focus on practicing my jump combinations next.
Triple toe loop into a double salchow—the bane of my existence.
Every time I try them, they leave me with a bruised hip and a bruised ego, but skipping practice isn’t an option if I want to avoid embarrassing myself at Nationals.
I crouch low, coil, and launch into the triple toe.
The air rushes past my face as I spin, and I stick the landing.
Relief washes over me for half a second before I push into the double salchow.
My landing wobbles hard and my chest tightens, frustration prickling up my spine.
But no time to sulk. I shake it off, reset, and line up again.
When I’m finally done with practice, I slip into the locker room, and sink onto the bench, a smile curling up despite the ache as I peel off my skates, rubbing the tightness from my calves.
I roll my ankles in slow circles, reach for my toes, feeling the familiar, deep stretch tug through my hamstrings and hips.
A few of the girls gather in a circle, whispering about the latest music choices for Nationals, and I can’t help but listen.
“Seriously? Swan Lake again?” one of them groans. “It’s such a cliché.”
I smirk to myself as I unlace my boots. My own program music definitely isn’t classical or expected. Coach raised a brow when I picked it—told me it didn’t have the right tone—but I fought to keep it. Something about it just felt like me.
I peel off my tights and tug on my sweats, my legs throbbing in that deep, heavy way they only do after a good practice.
But despite the burn, and the sweat cooling at the back of my neck, I tuck my skates into my bag with a small smile.
Because I know exactly where I’m going after I leave this rink.
His door’s already cracked open when I get there.
I knock once anyway, then push the door open and peek inside.
Austin’s standing in the middle of his kitchen, wearing grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a white t-shirt that clings like it grew there, one hand holding a whisk, the other a mixing bowl.
His face is twisted in pure concentration as he stares down at what I can only assume is a baking attempt gone very wrong.
When he looks up and sees me, his whole face lights up into a goofy grin, like I just made his day, and my heart does that stupid wobble thing. “Hey, baby.”
I swallow hard at the nickname, chuckling as I take in the spilled flour on the counter. “You’re actually baking?”
He glances at the bowl, then back at me, his eyes narrowing. “Define baking.”
I drop my bag by the door and walk over, eyeing the flour-dusted countertop and a very questionable bag of chocolate chips. “Did you follow a recipe?”
He wipes a streak of flour from his forehead and lets out a dramatic sigh. “I followed my heart.”
I snort. “So, no.”
“I measured,” he says, lifting the whisk like it’s a mic. “Emotionally.”
I lean against the counter beside him, shaking my head. “That’s not how it works.”
“Cookie dough’s cookie dough.” He shrugs and holds the bowl toward me. “Try it.”